


balerion's revenge

by manticoremoons



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Jonerys AU Fest, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 22:04:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12591524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manticoremoons/pseuds/manticoremoons
Summary: The last survivor of a disgraced dynasty, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen has longed to reap vengeance for her fallen family by taking on the greatest houses in Westeros. Not by blood and fire as her ancestors might’ve done but by the only thing that matters to families as powerful as these: money.Setting up Balerion’s Lair, Kingsland’s newest gambling establishment, is just the way to do it – for if she knows anything about the world, nothing brings about the downfall of a family quicker than vice. And she’s created a place where the men (and women) of Westeros can indulge in every single one.She didn’t anticipate anyone catching on to her game.But she’d never met Lord Commander Jon Snow, had she?





	balerion's revenge

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, it's Jonerys AU Fest and I wanted to write a Regency Romance AU, that's it. I grew up on those so it was kind of fun to do this. EDIT: OKAY, I will try to continue this - but I can't make promises on an update schedule, I usually hate WIPs so will attempt to write massively ahead so as not to get overwhelmed. Thank you for the positive response! I hope you enjoy this self-indulgent trope-tastic mess somewhat. 
> 
> King's Landing has become the capital city called "Kingsland" for my purposes. Like any Regency romance worth its salt: a ball, occurs, there's some sort of war happening in the background, and rich people like to gamble and fart around being obnoxious and class-obsessed. I've adapted the characters' stories to fit the context i.e. Targaryens are simply nobility and not kings/queens, their crest is a dragon but there's no actual dragons, there's an unnamed royal family but they're irrelevant beyond issuing royal decrees, and Dany and Jon aren't related by blood or anything. Hopefully it all makes a modicum of sense.
> 
> I own nothing but the mistakes.

 

 

“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.”  
**― Sun Tzu, The Art of War**

 

One would have to have been deaf, blind and dumb to have missed the collective intake of breath at the entrance of the woman. For a moment or two, an entire ballroom came to a hushed stand-still, even the musicians sawing away at their violins in the corner paused, as every eye in the room gawped at the commotion at the door.

From his corner, away from the tiresome dancing and chatter, Jon spied the mysterious guest, his eyes widening when he recognised her because of that striking hair of hers. Only one woman in the world had that kind of hair—at least naturally and without the use of unguents and dyes.

 _The Dragon Queen_ , she’d been called in scandalised whispers in every parlour from Sunspear to White Harbour, and the gossip rags, too. He’d even come across mention of the woman in his Night’s Watch briefings, if only for the dealings of her nefarious and now-dead husband, an ambitious horse-trader named Khal Drogo. Even during his commission up North, gathering intelligence to prevent the outbreak of war with the Wildling clans, Jon had heard of the infamous _Khal_. A man who’d claimed vengeance against several high-ranking Westerosi families, vowing to destroy them by blood.

His machinations were rumoured to be at the behest of his pretty Western wife, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the last descendant of an exiled and reviled noble line. A family so well-renowned for their excesses and vices that many deemed them mad. The last Targaryen duke, Aerys, had frittered away whatever wealth and glory the surname once evoked in Westeros. The Mad Duke as he’d been called had been a profligate devil with a bevy of mistresses, and too many dark tales of the callous treatment of his own lady wife and children. He’d also dabbled in speculation on unstable markets and the dubious dealings with his creditors were rumoured to have resulted in a score-and-ten people burned to death at a hunting party—including the dragon’s heir, Rhaegar.

Under normal circumstances, this would’ve led merely to disgrace and a strategic withdrawal from society for several seasons. But one of Aerys’ victims had been a third-cousin to the king and thus the man had been summarily stripped of his titles, remaining a member of the peerage only in name and little else. The dredges of his wealth were given to the Baratheons, Lannisters, and even offered to the Starks. An offer Eddard Stark, Jon’s father, had refused, his honour not allowing him to accept such a gift. Then Aerys had been banished across the Narrow Sea with his second son and a heavily pregnant wife. The baby, born on the open seas during a terrible storm, had been Daenerys.

By all accounts, the Stormborn’s pursuit of the restoration the Targaryen name had all come to nought when the khal perished from a flesh wound. Some even whispered it had been poison that took him.

Jon had been busy overcoming a series of assassination attempts in retaliation for his efforts to keep the king’s peace beyond the Wall, so he’d lost track of the story several years before. He’d spared not a moment to think what might have happened to the widowed Dragon Queen now that her _khal in_ _shining_ armour, so to speak, was gone and his vast resources with him.

Judging by her presence here on the arm of a grizzled older man, a chaperone or perhaps a lover, she hadn’t fared too poorly. Jon snorted, a sardonic twist to his mouth, taking a sip of the watered brandy he’d filched from a tray. Women like that always landed on their feet.

She was certainly beautiful enough to cause this kind of fracas. He, along with every other man in the room, eyed the scarlet drape of her dress, fresh blood spilt across a canvas of creamy skin and delicately plump curves, hair the colour of pale moonlight. Even from afar he could see the generous pout of her lips, a few shades lighter than the dress she wore. Her hair was set in complicated braids, some tendrils trailing freely across her back and shoulders.

A tempting picture, to be sure. Certainly not for the likes of him to sample. She wasn’t even an idea he could entertain.

But still, he couldn’t help but stare along with everyone else as the music and chatter started up again after the momentary hiccup. For someone so tiny—and she _was_ petite, her head barely reaching the shoulder of the man she was with—her presence seemed to fill the whole room, almost as if she was daring anyone and everyone to question her attendance.

Of course, no one did. The hosts, the Tyrells, were probably thrilled that the arrival would ensure this ball was remembered for the next fifty years or so. Which is why she was quickly welcomed, with much effusive greeting, by the youngest Tyrell, Margaery. The Little Rose, as she was called fondly by her many admirers (a truly ridiculous number of perfumed toffs who trailed after her like a gaggle of suited ducklings), was a woman Jon knew only by association. His addled half-brother, Robb, had decided he wanted to secure her hand in marriage and it was the only reason Jon had agreed to accompany him to this affair in the first place.

Base-born though he was, and a military man who knew better the ways of war and espionage in the service of the realm than these silly societal rituals, there were few things he would _not_ do for his siblings. Robb, Bran, Arya, Rickon, _even_ Sansa, he thought with wry smile at the collection of ladies’ magazines he’d bought to post to his oldest half-sister and the sword he’d commissioned for Arya, hellion that she was.

Showing his face at a ball full of his societal betters was the sort of thing he’d do only under the duress of brotherly devotion. 

Admittedly, there _was_ a grim satisfaction that only he could appreciate in knowing that he had likely saved the lives of every person in this room through his service in the Night’s Watch, not just his actions at the Wall but the Peninsula Wars against the Ironborn and the Dornish rumblings a year or two ago. And he’d been honoured for it too—reaching a commander’s rank, the youngest in Westeros’ history.

These people with their glittering diamonds and perfectly-rounded vowels could have their riches and champagne. _He_ , the Bastard of Winterfell,had offered his heart, his honour and his body in the service of a far greater cause and unlike too many who had fallen in battle, he’d been well-rewarded for it. Jon’s military uniform, littered as it was with badges of honour, told its own tale.

He had chosen to wear an all-black ensemble for this evening, down to his cravat— _sombre and depressing_ attire according to Robb who’d offered an admonishing look at Jon’s too-long hair held back in a barely-civilised queue and the trimmed beard he kept, even though clean jaws were supposedly in fashion these days. _What did he care about fashion of all things?_

The upper crust may not like having a bastard crow in their midst, even if that by-blow was the son of one of the most respected men in the realm. But they could never turn away a decorated serviceman who held the favour of many high-ranking generals and the Grand-Duke himself.

The downside to having such entrée into spaces he did not truly belong was the seeming necessity of small-talk and conversation. Fending off the tittering flirtations and demands to know _all about those deliciously horrifying scars on your face and wherever else, Lord Snow_ from breathless society Madams and Mademoiselles had never been his forte. Nor was spending hours in the smoking room with gout-ridden gentlemen who wished to hear glorious tales of war and conquest beyond the Wall and grew disappointed when he failed to deliver them.

War was war. He’d never found anything pleasant to say about it, not when he’d been right in the thick of it for more than half his life, not when he’d tasted an inglorious death once and come too close more times than he wished to tally.

There was no glory to be had on the battlefield. Only blood, and death, and misery.

Polishing off his drink, Jon cycled his shoulders with impatience. He could leave now and meet Robb at their club, or he could find a perfectly quiet and solitary corner and wait his brother out. He didn’t much like crowds, and already, the room was filling up wall-to-wall. A skitter of discomfort ran along his spine.

“Would you mind not looking like you’d rather pull out your own nails than be here, brother? One look at you and Lady Margaery will think I brought a gargoyle to her ball.”

Jon rolled his eyes at Robb’s poor jest. “We’ve been here for over an hour and you’re yet to speak with the woman. We made a deal, _brother_ , and I intend to hold you to it.”

“Is it really so terrible to attend a ball once in a while like a regular member of high society—don’t make that face, _you’re a nobleman_ , no matter what your last name is. The noblest of us all, I’d wager. You belong here just as much as the rest of us do.”

On any other man, the speech would’ve seemed false. But Robb’s earnest tone, the familiar affection in his gaze, made the corner of Jon’s mouth tilt.

“Oh! What’s that? Has Lord Commander Snow offered me a smile?” Robb clutched at his chest dramatically, sweeping his other hand across his brow in an imitation of a swoon. “However shall I survive such a boon?”

A chuckle blurted out of Jon before he could stop it. He shook his head and said without any cruelty, “You are a twit, you know that, right.”

“Yes, but I am your big brother, who asked you for this favour, and you will linger at this ball at least until I approach the lady in question then we can go off to do whatever it is you do for entertainment? I promise, just an hour or so, no longer.”

Jon acquiesced with embarrassing swiftness. Robb had been his greatest friend for as long as he could remember, raised as they were side-by-side, true brothers in all but name. He wouldn’t refuse him this. “I won’t leave but you need to gather your lordly courage and talk to the girl already, she can’t be that scary. You’re the one who decided you had to come to one of the first balls of the season instead of being sensible and waiting for your lady mother to come down and lead you around these things the _right, proper_ way.”

He mimicked their old maester as he said the words. They’d had many a lesson on the _right, proper_ way to conduct themselves as young lords, and neither of them had paid much attention.

Robb chuckled. “Mother isn’t coming until much later in the season since neither of the girls is ready to be formally presented to society. If I waited that long, I might never have Lady Margaery. And, believe me, a woman like her with the Ton at her feet? She is _that_ scary.”

“So why do you want her then?” Jon asked.

Robb was the heir to Winterfell. While not as wealthy as the Tyrells or the Lannisters, the legacy of the Starks was _thousands_ of years old. Most southerners considered the North to be a backwards place full of bearded, mead-drinking savages with a taste for fighting and superstition, and an utter absence of humour. But the Starks were as close to royalty as one would get beyond the Neck. To add to it, Robb was a brilliant businessman with a head for ideas, and if the Starks weren’t as wealthy as those famous families now—they soon would be with the investments in the coal deposits in Sheepshead as well as timber that he’d been making. He didn’t even have a reputation as a rakehell like most lords his age. He was no novice with the ladies, of course, but being Ned Stark’s son meant he had _some_ honour.

When all was said and done, Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, as he was called by his friends, was a catch.

“Because she’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen—and she’s _kind_.”

“You’ve never even spoken to her, how do you know she’s kind?”

“People talk,” Robb insisted. “And I can see it in her eyes.”

Jon side-eyed his brother and glanced at the woman across the hall who was deep in conversation with the newcomer Targaryen. Her dress was a striking contrast to the Dragon Queen’s, a deep azure threaded through with gold—side-by-side they resembled precious gems in motion. No one in the room could deny they were stunning. But one of her more obvious assets was undeniable and so Jon muttered, “More like ‘see it in her tits’, you mean.”

“Careful, brother, that’s the woman I’m going to marry—I wouldn’t want to call you out for saying anything untoward about her.” Jon could tell Robb was joking but there was an unmistakeable note of seriousness in the words.

“You really do feel something for her, don’t you?”

Robb emptied his glass of the sickly-sweet champagne he’d been nursing, shoving it in Jon’s hand. “I don’t know—but I won’t rest until I find out.” With that, he took a determined step in the direction of his lady love, a man clearly on a mission. It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so obvious Robb had lost his damned mind over the woman.

Jon knew what it was like to lose one’s head over a woman—or at least come close to such a folly. He’d learned his lesson back then. He hoped his brother’s experience wouldn’t be so bitter.

With a resigned sigh, Jon notched the glass on the nearest table. He glanced at the people around him, strangers he didn’t know and had little desire to. The lights in the ballroom had taken on a sickly brightness that made him blink. There were so many people, more than even five minutes before.

He breathed in deeply, clasping his hands in front of him so he could run his right thumb along the old burn scar on his wrist. The touch settled him a little. But knowing he was teetering on the edge of discomfort, he decided to find a more tolerable place.  Putting on his most forbidding expression in the hopes of discouraging any conversation, he skirted the cavernous ballroom’s dance floor for a set of stairs in the west corner that would hopefully lead to a library or parlour room where he could find a book, a snifter of whiskey and enjoy some measure of quiet, if not the peace he’d craved for too many years and never found.

 

# *

 

Dany thought her face might crack if she had to hold this smile one minute longer. The muscles in her cheeks felt brittle as bone as she spread her lips wide, showed all her teeth, and made nice with the posh Westerosi lords and ladies. She couldn’t give away the hatred that burned inside her with all the scorching heat of mythical dragon fire.

Instead, she reminded herself of every lesson in decorum and lady-like behaviour she’d learned from Illyrio and Viserys as a child. Both were long-dead, the former, she recalled with some affection, the latter with no small measure of guilt mingled with resentment. Viserys had been her brother, after all. And there was a time when she had loved him more than any person in the world. That had been before the insults, the painful pinches and hissed admonitions to _behave, be more beautiful, be less everything else_ which had turned into harsher slaps and drunken railing for infractions, real and imagined before he’d finally sold her to the _khal_ to pay off a gambling debt and, he’d claimed, buy back their ‘stolen lands from the fat-arsed Baratheon in Westeros.’

Of course, Viserys had used that money to fuel his addictions—whores, opium, faro, fortune-tellers—and he’d come back begging for someone to fix his problems once more.

The _khal_ hadn’t taken kindly to the way he’d begged, however. And now Viserys was gone.

Dany winced, a lancing grief cutting through her breast.

The _khal_ was gone too. And with him, whatever dreams she’d had of coming back to Westeros to claim her rightful place as the Last Targaryen, to win back all the lands and riches that had been stolen from her before she was even born.

At least that’s what most people thought.

It was best for them to underestimate her. To believe she was simply a fickle, young widow looking for her next rich husband to protect her from the world. A mere child of a disgraced house, returned to Westeros to gain favour and respectability, perhaps through an advantageous marriage to some well-placed lord—if any of them would have her, that is. A doubtful prospect, but most would assume she was stupid enough to hope for it.

_After all, who would want Mad Aerys’ daughter?_

She had heard the phrase for the first time while getting pinned into a gown at Madame Lafarge’s, a renowned dress-maker in Kingsland. At the time, she’d stood frozen and red-faced while the Madame sent her concerned looks, her fingers scrabbling over the hemline of the dress to make sure it didn’t drag. She had not confronted the two gossiping ladies, nor had she intended to. She _wanted_ Westerosi society to talk about her, to be curious, to wonder. It was that salacious thirst for gossip that would gain her entrée into the spaces she needed to.

Better to be a walking scandal that everyone was speculating about than nothing else. And besides, all of it, all of the rumours and conjectures only added to the mask she must wear. Made it so no one would even think she had returned with a cunning motive.

Who would suspect _Mad Aerys’ daughter_ of possessing a brain in her head? Of taking the small inheritance she’d gotten from her husband and using it to buy out all the struggling copper hells in Flea Bottom and the city's other squalid rookeries? Who would suspect _her_ of opening up Balerion’s Lair, Kingsland’s newest gentleman’s gaming establishment? A golden hall that defied all the stuffy strictures of class separation Westerosi society was obsessed with, a haven for gentleman of good taste and common men with good money to sit side-by-side in the shared pursuit of vice. Exotic liquor, beautiful women, a bit of music, the kind of dancing you’d never see in upstanding places like this ballroom, and most important of all, a good old laugh.

She was only just getting started but _soon_.

 _Soon_ , she’d begin to lure patrons from the legendary high society clubs—White’s, Brook’s and the like. And when she did that, when the lords and ladies who were responsible for the downfall of her family all pranced into her lair to sup and quaff wine at her tables, throw away their money on cards and dice, putting themselves under her thumb—she’d reclaim what was hers. _With Interest._

And not a single one of them would see her coming. The prospect of revenge was so close—closer than it had been a year ago at this time—that she could almost taste the sweetness of it on her tongue.

“Khaleesi, are you well—May I fetch you a glass of champagne, perhaps?” her Old Bear asked, his voice warm with concern and affection. He still called her by her old title, the title she’d been given in the khalasar years ago. She had no claim to it now, of course, but it made her smile wistfully to remember it.

Ser Jorah Mormont had been by her side from almost the very start of her marriage to Drogo, when she’d barely been more than a child. A kind, leather-faced old knight who’d been exiled from Westeros just like she and her brother had. Dany had an inkling that the man was half in love with her, that he would die for her if she asked for it. But most of all, he was her oldest friend and confidante. One of only two people who knew her true purpose here.

“No, Ser Jorah.” Glancing at the pretty woman who’d been the first to welcome her into the ballroom with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, Dany said, “I shall take a turn around the ballroom with Lady Margaery, here. I’m sure there’s no one better equipped with charm and grace to introduce me.” Tilting her head, injecting a beseeching wheedle to her voice, “But only if you would suffer my woeful ignorance of all the niceties of good society for a few more minutes, Lady Margaery. I am only just settling back into a life I barely knew.”

It was the kind of performance that grated on her nerves. Weak, simpering, naïve lass. But it was necessary. Lady Margaery was a _Rose of the Ton_ , the sort of woman everyone wanted to be with and who, importantly, knew everyone and everything there was to know. She would be a useful ally, Dany knew. And so she would worm her way into Margaery Tyrell’s confidence, ingratiate herself in her circle, and use the knowledge and connections she gained from the association to her distinct advantage.

 _In order to destroy an enemy, she must know it_. She’d paid close attention to all her old lessons in ancient philosophy. She would not fear the result of a hundred battles because she knew herself, and by the time she was done conquering the _Ton_ with all its petty gossips and foibles, she’d know the enemy front to back.

“Oh, it’s no hardship, Lady Daenerys, we’ve all heard so _much_ about you—I think you will grow impatient with all our curious questions.” Her crystal-blue eyes sparkled with keen intelligence and cordiality through the rather gushing response.

Dany smiled back with equal warmth before she caught herself. She would need to be on her guard. Lady Margaery may be a Rose but she wasn’t vapid or foolish like the society girls she’d been told to expect. In another life, Dany might even have called her a friend.

 _A dragon must have no weakness_ , she reminded herself. Viserys had taught her that lesson often enough.

With a nod, they set off to make a circuit around the room.

 

# *

 

The faces began to blur somewhere after the seventh or eighth introduction, even with Margaery’s often outrageous commentary on each one (“They say that fat lord is addicted to opium and he’s lost all his money as a result, creditors up to his eyeballs.” “Lady Hawkeshead’s been cheating on her husband with his best friend, a Tully, I think. It’s a _mammoth_ scandal.” “That one’s boring and virtuous, and will preach to you until dawn about the Seven if you let him, you don’t want to know him, _trust_ me.”).

Dany was thankful that she’d always had a prodigious mnemonic skill. She could never forget a name or a face once she’d learned it. This would aid her well when she took her notes in the morning tomorrow.

There were some who’d put her on her guard immediately. The oldest Lannister son, Ser Jaime with his unctuous smiles and his sharp-eyed sister who stood close to him the whole night; the youngest Baratheon brother with his easy charm. And others who merely made her cringe. Unfortunately, her good memory meant she wouldn’t easily forget the sloppy kisses inflicted on her poor hand accompanied by few less than gentlemanly winks from a few men, nor the cutting remarks from some of the ladies.

_However did you survive with those savages all those years? How dreadful!_

_Is it true that if a lady spends too much time with the Dothraki she becomes a beastly creature herself? Why, I’ve heard they don’t even wear shoes and sleep under the stars like animals._

_It’s so very unfortunate about your father—I say, didn’t he pass on the voyage there along with your mother? Most unfortunate!_

_I hear those Essosi are nothing but licentious creatures, lacking in any honour or virtue whatsoever. It must have been utterly terrible for you._

She’d managed to hold her tongue. It wouldn’t do to offend everyone on her first night in society. Her life had rarely been easy, not even as a child in Braavos, she would never deny that. But even the trials had taught her much—certainly more than these whey-faced lasses and portly prats learned in their drawing rooms over tea!

Reigning in her temper, Dany looked to Lady Margaery as they took a moment to breathe and sip on their watered champagne. She was surprised to find the lady watching her too, with a knowing smile on her lips.

“You must hate every single person here,” she said in surprisingly sympathetic observation.

Snickering behind a gloved hand, Dany couldn’t deny it. “How could you tell?”

“Every single time one of them said something silly about your upbringing or made a foolish assumption, you fingers tensed around my elbow almost like you wanted to reach out and claw their eyes out.”

Dany withdrew her hand, noticing the faint creases on Margaery’s gown. With a sheepish smile, she shook her head, “Gods, I’m sorry for near-strangling your arm…. I just. I suppose I must get used to it, mustn’t I? If I want to fit in?”

Margaery’s brow creased. “Why would you ever want to fit in with them, Lady Daenerys? They’re little more than sheep. More importantly, it’s not useful to fit in – but you can make them _love_ you. Now that. That is infinitely more beneficial in navigating the world, wouldn’t you say?”

“You surprise me, Lady Margaery,” Dany said, her eyes narrowing as she re-evaluated the woman before her. She’d been right to note Margaery’s intelligence and now she could see the woman was cunning, too. She may not ever call her ‘friend’ but she would be a worthy ally, without doubt. “You’re not at all what I expected of the ladies of Westeros.”

“Please, call me Margaery. And no, I’m not like most ladies here, I suppose that’s why I immediately found myself drawn to you. I think you and I shall be good friends, don’t you?”

“Call me Daenerys—and yes, I think we shall.” The two of them shared a conspiratorial look of amusement.

A dark shadow caught the corner of Dany’s eye and she turned her head towards it to find a man making his way along the edges of the ballroom. He didn’t walk so much as prowl, lingering in the shadows of the glittering candelabra and making a good deal of effort to avoid conversing with anyone else. He cut a sombre figure, in all black, cravat strapped so tight and high around his throat that it made Dany’s fingers itch to untie it. He was of a medium height but he cut an imposing figure with his serious mien. His unfashionably long hair pulled neatly away from his face, the uncustomary beard across his chin that framed his face almost perfectly yet effortlessly drew Dany’s gaze as did his eyes, dark and watchful. It was obvious that he would rather be anywhere but here—and Dany suddenly felt a twinge of commiseration with the stranger.

“Who’s he?” Dany asked her companion, quietly.

Margaery followed Dany’s look and made an amused sound. “That, my dear, is Lord Commander Jon Snow, easily one of the most celebrated military men in the country _and_ the most awkward. Most Northmen are, from my experience. They don’t get much society up there, apparently. Even if he is,” and this she whispered, “ _the base-born son of the honourable Ned Stark_ , there’s no excuse for his beastly manners. I hear one time, one of those Dayne girls tried to start a conversation with him and he simply looked at her for ten seconds, turned around and walked away without uttering a word!”

Dany filed the information away. Ned Stark’s bastard son, she would need to explore that further in the coming weeks. While the Starks had had much reason to despise her family given they lost two in Aerys’ fire, there were some scores to settle there.

Chortling with deceptive ease, Dany recalled meeting one of the Dayne girls and found she couldn’t blame the lord commander for his aloof treatment. She had felt compelled to do the same. Only her primary objectives in being at this ball had held her back from doing so. “But you must admit those Dayne girls are….”

Margaery patted her arm with a scoff. “Oh of course I can _admit_ it but I’d never _show_ it so blatantly. He has the subtlety of a full-grown dire wolf in a tea room, I’m afraid, and spends most of his time lurking and glaring at everyone who dares approach him at these fetes.”

Outright laughing, Dany shook her head. She rather liked that this Jon Snow didn’t bother with the vagaries of society, for they could be exhausting in the extreme. It was refreshing to have someone like that in the midst of this strange jungle she’d found herself in. A bastard who had made something of himself was no one to sneeze at. It was a rarity in Westeros, a society that took all manner of issue with accidents of birth or Fate like bastardy, poverty and widowhood.

“Anyway, my new bosom friend, do you mind if I leave you for a bit? I must attend to my lady grandmother and a few of the other guests.” Margaery pointed to the elderly woman holding court on a raised dais towards the front of the ballroom.

“No, please, it’s all right—I believe I’d like to go and take some air.” She had another objective in mind but Margaery did not need to know that. “I shall bid you farewell before I leave. And I thank you for being so welcoming to me this night, I won’t forget your kindness.”

“It was my pleasure—I will have to leave my calling card this week, we have so much more to learn from each other.”

“Indeed,” Dany said, and watched as Margaery made her way through the crowd, each person she met fawning and vying for her attention like a pack of hungry dogs desperate for a treat. She took it all in her stride, Dany noticed. Never lingering too long but just long enough to make that person feel welcome.

For all of Margaery’s over-familiarity in calling her a ‘bosom friend’, Dany felt a genuine affection for the lady. She was funny and irreverent, smart as a whip _and_ kind. The Tyrell’s had never done anything to harm her family, and Dany was suddenly rather thankful for this fact. She wouldn’t like to cause this particular lady or her family any suffering.

 

# *

 

 

After performing her toilette, Dany made her way down a corridor leading away from the festivities and into a gallery filled from floor to ceiling with well-wrought paintings, landscapes and a few portraits as well.

According to the information Lord Varys had given her, the study was nearby. In it, she would find one of the last few eyewitness accounts of the night that had killed her brother, Rhaegar.

Dany had never known Rhaegar. She’d heard of him only through the stories Viserys told her, and later, Ser Jorah had introduced her to one of his old friends, a retired military man named Ser Barristan Selmy. From all accounts, Rhaegar had been good and kind, the last hope of the Targaryen dynasty, well-loved by all who knew him except his own father. In her childish mind, Rhaegar had taken on an almost mythical status. The fallen knight who might’ve restored her family’s honour, lifted them out of ignominy, and perhaps, in her innermost thoughts, been a brother who loved her as a brother should, without the petty cruelties Viserys dealt her.

It was silly to be so obsessed with learning the truth of what had happened. What could it change now? Revenge against the families who destroyed her own should’ve been enough. But some part of her would always hunger to know.

The events that led to the Mad Duke’s Massacre, as the party was known in infamy, had been a mystery. Many dismissed it as a fatal accident or Mad Aerys setting fire to the Targaryen legacy to avoid the creditors calling on him to sell. But neither explanation sufficed. Something else had happened that night, and in a locked drawer in Lord Tyrell’s study, might be the first inklings of that elusive truth.

 

# *

 

Picking the second door on her left, Dany opened it and slipped into the room beyond. A spacious, dimly lit study by the looks of it. Two walls were lined from ceiling to floor with books, weighty tomes with gold embellishments on their spines, and smaller ones too.  A desk dominated another wall of the room, a small pianoforte made of ebony rested in the corner, and opposite that was a smouldering fireplace with a few sumptuous couches in front of it. It was a rather masculine room, set in dark oaks and teakwood, heavy crimson and forest green leather and brocade curtains in navy blue and gold.

The sounds of the ball were muted from up here, absorbed by the thick Braavosi rugs, woven in elaborate patterns. Some quiet was welcome, as was the chance to release the tension in her body and not have to stand like a stiff-necked lady of the _Ton_ because of the confining stays under her dress. The fashion in Essos, and especially with the Dothraki where she’d spend much time on horseback, had been far more relaxed. Here in Westeros, a woman caught outside without some sort of corset was considered a peasant or something worse. It was almost a gift to get to slouch at the end of the day.

On a table by the door, Dany saw a rather elaborate ornament—burnished bronze dragon, mid-roar—and picked it up. The teeth were blunt but it was satisfyingly heavy in her hands. Her family crest had been a dragon and some even called her that, she remembered with a wry smile. _The Dragon Queen_. She was no queen, but she was the last dragon.

Making her way to the desk, she put the sculpture down and slipped behind to the chair. She eyed the ornate drawers with their gold rose-shaped handles. The first one didn’t budge when she pulled on it. She muttered an expletive under her breath. She’d need to pick the locks. They didn’t look particularly complicated, thankfully, but they would require some finagling. Digging into her silk reticule, she located the small dagger she’d gotten as a gift from her husband. Crouching in front of the desk, she inserted the thin tip of the blade into the first drawer, finessing it along the pins with care until she heard a quiet click.

That was easy. She exhaled in relief. This bit of criminal behaviour wouldn’t take long.

“What are you doing?”

Dany jumped out of her skin at the deep voice. She stood up in a hurry, feeling faint-headed at the sudden movement, and shot a look in the direction from where the voice had come – one of the couches facing the fireplace.

There, tousled from a nap was none other than Lord Commander Snow. He blinked owlishly at her, a flare of surprise in his eyes at the sight of her. One of the curls from his queue had slipped out across his forehead. Even with her heart clattering in her chest at being caught in the middle of what amounted to stealing, she couldn’t help but notice, _again_ , how comely the man was.

Attempting to appear calm and collected, she dropped her blade on the mercifully thick rug, kicking it under the table legs. She sauntered around the desk to stand in front of it to keep him from seeing the half-open drawer she’d been about to paw through.

“Oh, you scared me! I didn’t see you there, my lord. I—simply felt ever so faint,” she trilled, an edge of hysteria bleeding into the words despite her best efforts. When in doubt, the guise of a flighty society belle would always prove useful, so she played the part to the hilt. “The lovely Lady Margaery advised me to take a moment to myself in this study, perhaps read a book to occupy me. The Tyrell’s are said to have a fine collection dotted all over this manor.”

While she spoke, he’d stood up from his seat and was making his way towards her with that loose-limbed prowl she’d noticed in the ballroom. He still gave off a lazy air, as though he wasn’t fully awake, but she didn’t miss his sharp eyes examining her with suspicion. After all, if she’d come for books, why would she be crouched behind a desk instead of by the highly visible _wall_ covered in reading material all the way on the other side of the room.

He stopped a respectable few feet from her and simply watched her with that steady gaze, one that seemed to plumb all her secrets with a single look. Dany tried not to do something incriminating like gulp or back away. She had _nothing_ to feel guilty about—as far as he knew. He’d been asleep!

“It’s certainly a fine collection,” he confirmed. He tilted his left brow, above which there was a thin scar curving upwards all the way to his hairline and down beneath his eye. It lent his face a sense of character. She felt the ridiculous urge to run her fingertips across it, just to test what it might feel like. “Not that you’d find any of those books behind Lord Tyrell’s desk over there.”

There was a thread of sarcasm to his voice. With a hot flush, Dany scrambled for an explanation, “I was merely admiring the desk—it’s very beautiful, don’t you think? So ornate and… majestic.” She sounded like a nitwit. He probably thought her one too if the amused glint in his stare was anything to go by.

“The _desk_?”

He took another step forward to the point that he would be in reaching distance if she held out her arm. Without warning, he took a shuffling feint to the side as if to bypass her. Dany hopped sideways to block him, all the while trying to make it look like vaguely normal behaviour.

She could see by his raised eyebrows that it hadn’t worked. _Drat_.

“What are you hiding, Lady Targaryen?”

 _And he knew her name_. Of course, he knew her name. The title was a mere courtesy but she was and always would be the Mad Duke’s daughter, and she hadn’t exactly been subtle about making her entrance earlier. That meant there was no chance of knocking him out with the dragon sculpture and making a run for it with the papers she needed. _Bloody bollocks_ , she cursed inwardly. The sort of coarse language a good Westerosi lady would never be caught dead uttering. But she was no lady.

“What makes you think I’m hiding something?”

He shot her an incredulous look.

Well, the jig was up. Any moment now he would sound the alarm and the Tyrells would come up, find out she’d been rifling through their belongings, and whatever little reputation she had would be ruined and half of her plan compromised. They might even send her to the gaol, with good reason.

Breathless with completely uncharacteristic panic, Dany did the only thing she could do to shut this infernal man up.

She grabbed at the lapels of his inky-black dinner jacket, dragged him close while she stepped forward into the firm wall of his chest, and—

She kissed him.

It wasn’t a soft kiss. She’d been too unsettled to modulate her movements, and her mouth crashed into his with a rather loud clack of teeth. Wincing, she drew back a fraction, finding his flabbergasted eyes, a steeped-whiskey colour shot through with grey, staring at her.

“What in the gods’—?”

There was no time to give him even a moment to think or pull away or ask any more questions. Instead, she leaned in again, this time with more grace, catching the plump of his lower lip in between her own, employing every skill she’d learned in her rather short marriage. Drogo hadn’t been much for kissing, certainly not with tenderness, even in the few months when they had been something close to content with their lot.

Kissing this Jon Snow didn’t feel anything like those fleeting, rough intimacies with her husband.

He tasted different for one, the pleasant tang of whiskey on his tongue as she swept hers into his mouth with the plundering intent of a woman on a mission _not_ _to be sent to the gaoler’s by the close of this night._

Quickly, though, he recovered from whatever shock he’d felt, and instead of pushing her away, he softened the contact. His tongue meeting hers, a sensual duel in which they learned the flavour of each other.

One callused hand came up to grasp her chin, tilting her face just so to deepen the kiss. The short-hairs of his beard abraded her skin, and he drew her in further with his free hand at the small of her back, the tips of his fingers stopping just short of her bottom. He stepped forward, nudging her until she hit the corner of the desk.

And, just like that, Dany’s mind fogged up thick as a winter’s morning, her own hands creeping up to his broad shoulders as she held on for dear life. His wandering hand gripped her thigh, urging her to perch on the desk’s edge and make a space for him between her legs, spread wantonly beneath her gown. The new position allowed him to move in, the top half of his body smothered against hers.

A whimper escaped her, and she lost herself to him and his lips and the hard body under her fingertips.

Dimly, at the back of her mind, she wondered if kissing this man to distract him from asking too many questions had been such a wise idea after all.

 

# *

 

Jon did wonder for split-second if he’d drank too much of the fine whiskey in Tyrell’s study, and whether this was all a fevered drunk’s dream.

But the body under his palms was no bone-chilling dream wraith. No, she was the opposite of that. She was fire made flesh, the supple curves underneath the silky dress scalded him with their heat.

He’d had some reason for questioning her earlier but he couldn’t, for the life of him, recall what it was. Nor did he care to, not right then with the pitched noises she was making as she writhed against him.

Earlier that night, he’d admired the dragon’s beauty from afar, confident that one such as her would never want anything to do with the likes of him. And yet, here she was, grasping at his shoulder for purchase with one hand while the other snuck up to queue at the nape of his neck, setting his hair free so she could drag her fingers through it.

If anyone would ask him _how_ this happened, he’d never be able to quite say. And part of him knew he should probably stop it and continue with his line of interrogation. But the larger part of him simply did not care.

One part of him in particular had swelled and risen to attention the moment she placed her mouth on his. Frankly, even earlier than that. His body, following its own demanding intent, surged against hers, settling between her thighs like it belonged there. He kissed his way along her chin, down to the throbbing pulse at her throat, and then the plush softness of her tits rising over the square neckline of her dress with every frenzied breath. He opened his mouth and dabbed his tongue against the plump crease, tasting a hint of salt and lilacs. His left hand cupped one breast, marvelling at the soft weight of it, the titillating pucker of her nipple through her gown’s thin material.

 _Gods, he wanted to do bad things to her_. To lay her out on this desk, sweep aside its contents, and nibble at every inch of her until he’d had his fill.

A raucous round of applause from the ballroom jerked them both apart. The sound of their panting was loud in the study, interrupted only by the crackling fire.

He watched as the fog in her eyes cleared a little and an expression of alarm came in. She looked at his hand on her breast, his thoroughly ruined cravat thanks to her, her legs practically wrapped around the back of his thighs like a strangling vine, her own fingers woven in his hair with a gaping mouth, as though she wasn’t quite sure how the two of them had gotten here.

Before he could ease the awkward moment, she detached her hands from his head and used what must have been all her strength to shove him away.

Jon let her, staggering back. He opened his mouth to remind her that she’d accosted him not the other way around but she beat him to it.

An apology bubbling out of her mouth in rushed squeak, as she gathered her purse, and scampered for the door. “Oh gods, please—Commander Snow, accept my apologies for… this.” She gestured vaguely at the space between them, a nervous hand running through her mussed hair. She was rumpled, well-kissed, her lips swollen and reddened to the point where they matched her dress, a becoming flush spread across her cheeks and down to her chest—he wondered how far it must go. One sleeve of her dress had fallen to her elbow from his greedy fingers revealing the slope of a smooth shoulder, and her breasts trembled from the heave of her huffed breaths, threatening to fall out at any second.

“Oh, what you must think of me….” She winced at herself and he took a step forward to allay whatever fears she might have. The thought of her looking on what they’d done together with shame or even disgust made something inside him rear with anger. He had spent much of his life being the object of just such emotions but something about  _her_ feeling that way because of this evening, _because of him_ raised his hackles.

She took a lurching step back, and held out her hand to indicate that he should stay right where he was. “No!” she exclaimed, before muttering with a sheepish one-shouldered shrug. “Don’t come any closer for my own sanity, _please_ , my lord. Gods know what you’d have me doing next if you do.”

She swallowed noticeably, taking another backwards step away from him before pointing at the door. “I must… _should_ … leave. Yes, that’s what… I should do.” Her gaze slid across to him one last time, curiosity and a black smouldering want crowding out the violet-blue in her eyes, as she bit her lower lip. She shook her head as though to shake herself out of a trance.

And then, with a speed that was only slightly comical, she was gone.

Jon didn’t move for many minutes as he got his body under control, savouring the last remnants of her fragrance that she’d left behind.

 _So that was the Dragon Queen_. He chuckled under his breath, thinking of the combination of her skittish excuses, the annoyance in her eyes as he’d continued to question her, and the sheer audacity of the woman to lie to his face, and so poorly, too. She had intrigued him the moment he’d spied her behind Tyrell’s desk. Then he’d gotten a taste of her—the champagne she’d likely been drinking earlier, hints of strawberry and mint, and he knew that he had to _have_ her.

Straightening his abused cravat as best he could, he frowned at the glint of metal peeking out from Tyrell’s desk. Crouching, he picked up the small dagger. Definitely not the sort of thing a man would carry around. It was small, elegant, an ivory handle with intricate and exotic carvings. A woman’s weapon. Not Westerosi in make given the Valyrian metal-work—it was something one might find from a rich weapons merchant in Braavos. He knew, without a doubt, that it had belonged to Daenerys, and she’d left it behind…. _Why?_

Pocketing the blade, he resolved to ask the woman herself the next time he saw her. Which would be sooner rather than later, for he would have his steward leave his calling card at her home first thing on the morrow. He’d have left it this very night if such a thing was proper. He wasn’t a patient man by nature, but war had taught him many things, including how to wait. For her, he would.

Earlier, he’d mocked Robb and the constant blathering over the pretty Tyrell Rose. Maybe, all it took was a single moment and a stolen kiss ( _kisses_ …) and a man was lost in a deep fascination.

Whatever the case, now that he’d caught a whiff of Daenerys Stormborn, with all her secrets and that lightning-hot passion of hers, the wolf inside him would never rest until he had a taste of her again.

 

_(not done yet, more chapters incoming…)_

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is cool or whatever.


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